To Seek Revenge
by Mistress X
Summary: Sequel to The Demon Barber. AU and Sweenett too. The afterlife had an ill-fated twist of events. The pair never had a chance for servitude above. But perhaps royalty below is a more tempting offer. New characters and power struggles abound!


_Memory is a crazy woman that hoards colored rags and throws away food._ - Austin O'Malley

* * *

There was a time, not too long before several unfortunate circumstances, that Nellie Lovett was a decent, respectable baker. She was most well known for delectable pastries. Her specialties were raspberry and blueberry tarts with fresh whipped cream. The little ones would dash across the cobblestone streets—sniffing noses and grumbling tummies leading to her shop. The children bore chessboard smiles and pudgy, grasping fingers for just a taste. Sometimes, on holidays or birthdays, she would hide a small piece of chocolate underneath the dollop of cream. It was rewarding enough to hear their laughter—but penniless all the same.

Her husband, Albert, was a fair butcher. She rarely saw him—except for meals or for a quick wrestle between the linens. His words were few and limited. Every so often 'you do good work, Nell' would escape his mouth. Yet she always heard his cleaver. At least ricochet snaps of bone against knife interrupted his silence.

But a plague swept through London—not of vermin or sickness, but greed. Cattle were sparse and considered rare. The herders were hushed about any possible rationale. The farmers complained of barren fields—even though the rivers were flooded. Mrs. Lovett was worried. Her belly was swollen and heavy with child. She prayed for hope.

However, the Lord was without mercy or kindness. He was a glutton. She prayed for hours, rubbing wooden rosary beads until her fingertips bled. She cried and begged for salvation. His plan brought her more sorrow and humiliation. Her twin boys were stillborn. The cords were wrapped around their necks like nooses. Albert was ailing. His legs were mangled with deep, crusted ulcers. He refused doctors or treatment. He ordered her to serve customers. He passed while she did just that.

She forgot about pies—or rather she did not care. She made a puréed slop of liver, kidneys, and other cheap organs. The filling was always dark grey and revolting. She covered her shame with a thick, burnt crust. She prayed for death too.

One particularly dreary day, a foggy Sunday morning, a jingle-jangle rattled against the doorframe. She lifted her eyes but still chopped mercilessly into a moldy carrot. She gasped and thrust her knife into the cutting board.

A customer! A _handsome_ customer!

She could not contain nor conceal her excitement. She had to tell someone.

"That man is nothin' but trouble, Nellie. I dunno why you put the likes of 'im up there in the ol' Barker room," Mrs. Mooney warned, pounding her plump fists into dough—flour flouncing, dancing like intricate snowflakes onto the counter.

Mrs. Lovett was far from listening to anyone—especially not a chubby old woman harping on such a charming man. She propped her elbows on the dusted table. Her hands were a delicate cradle for her heavy head. She was daydreaming into a powdery white wonderland. She was so excited for winter, for the first snow. This would be the first Christmas, in years, not spent alone.

"You think Mr. T would fancy a nice knit muffler? Somethin' in blue perhaps. I think he'd look smashin' in navy," She dreamily sighed with glazed, distant eyes.

Mrs. Mooney paused mid-pummel, scrunched her nose, and side-glanced the younger woman. She shook her head and exhaled, "Oh, Nell. I know that look on you now. You fancy 'im. But listen 'ere, dear. Love won't get you nowhere nowadays."

The fantasy shattered and stung like slivers of glass between her fingers. Mrs. Lovett was suddenly irritated and grumbled, "What does a dried-up hag know 'bout love?"

"More than you think," Mrs. Mooney snapped—but just a tad too quickly. Her abrupt interjection initiated a coughing frenzy. She covered her mouth and hacked green, coagulated mucus onto her open palm. She scrutinized the gooey mess, shrugged, and resumed thumping dough. She cleared her throat once and started again, "It was a good an' proper match with you an' Albert. It was jus' business. You put love, where it don't belong, an' things get too complicated."

"I can handle it. Mr. T an' me can handle anythin'," Mrs. Lovett stubbornly replied.

"This is the first man since Albert passed, ain't it?" Mrs. Mooney questioned. She did not receive a response but continued anyway, "I understand, you miss the company. An' maybe you miss other things too? Men ain't the only ones with needs you know. If you need love so bad, jus' go round the corner. At least you'd get somethin' for _that_ pie, dear."

"I didn't come 'ere for insults," Mrs. Lovett sneered, abruptly turned, and stomped toward the door. She grasped the doorknob and turned.

Mrs. Mooney and the jangling exit bell chorused, "That man will be your death, Nellie Lovett! Don't be foolish, stay away from 'im!"

Of all the inopportune times to remember a conversation, and ignore immaculate advice, now was certainly the worst.

She should have listened.


End file.
